Side Effects of Popularity
by coniferae
Summary: Xpost from AO3. Warning for PTSD. Not dark, though, and not really graphic.
1. Evening, Morning, Night

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep, _

_But I have promises to keep, _

_And miles to go before I sleep, _

_And miles to go before I sleep._

For some reason night always disturbs me. The closer is an evening to night-time, the lower are my spirits. Really, I often think that it has something to do with the fears of childhood, the time when it is an act of great bravery to go to a cemetery, and almost every boy pretends that he has no wish for his mother to stay in his room after the lights are off.

I was standing on the steps of a morgue, looking into the darkening Edinburgh streets. The majority of the window frames were full of a sweet, honey light, slightly dimmed by the dirt on the glass. At the foot, however, right above the roadway, the deathlike darkness reigned, creating an impression of some deep mythical river.

Our last joint autopsy was finished successfully, and – queer thing – to this day I remember every little detail of these two or three hours, my last hours in Auld Reekie. I remember the scalpel, from which cold thick blood was draining slowly and thoughtfully, being laid on the operation table, Bell's long fingers drumming the table's corner, sweet-foul scent of the dissected body, dusty scent of the mortuary walls. This dusty scent – I enjoyed it, because somehow it had always reminded me of deep, cold basements with sacks of potatoes and lots of jam jars.

Our verdict was "infarctus myocardii acutus", which in plain English means heart attack, so there was nothing particularly interesting about this autopsy. It was pretty dull, to be honest.

- Pretty dull, isn't it, Doyle?

The Doctor managed to approach me noiselessly, so I flinched at the sound of his deep voice.

- If ye keep appearing this suddenly, I'll jolly well get a heart attack myself, - said I surly and then sighed. – Well, in our case the more ordinary the better, I guess. But it wasn't very exciting as a medical experience.

He was now standing next to me, looking in the same direction. I watched him sideways; blue long shadows made his austere face somewhat mysterious.

- Hope you will have enough of exciting medical practice soon in London, – for a moment I seemed to hear regret in his tone.

I smiled weakly and shivered from the cold, which was gradually deepening.

- I'll certainly try to.

- Farewell then. - Now he sounded dry. After a pause, though, when I already stepped towards the gates, he added: "Take care of yourself".

And I left, walking away towards the city. Vague sadness filled my heart. This evening seemed to invoke all my loneliness and self-doubt. "Yet", - said I to myself reassuringly, - "future promises me so much at the moment: my very own medical practice in the capital, new relationships with new people, perhaps even love; don't go self-pitying, you're actually a lucky one".

This consolation hardly improved my mood. Although I was young, my life had never been light and easy. Of course I knew that I couldn't deny my hapless existence and turn over a new leaf: there, in Edinburgh, remained my family, my unfortunate father was enclosed in the local asylum, and, to be honest, I was extremely attached to Bell, despite all the asperities of his temper.

I only hoped that the fresh air of London would cure and strengthen me, and that being away from Bell's dark world and painful meetings with Charles Altamont Doyle would do me some good. Also if my practice would start well enough, I'd be able to help my mother, who had severe financial difficulties at the time. My only big regret was that I had to abandon my younger brother Innes, the prospect which neither I nor he liked.

And so I said goodbye to my family and left from the Waverley station at ten post meridem into the darkness of dull countryside fields and complete uncertainty. The black locomotive was sighing heavily like some huge and calm animal; sitting in a half-dark compartment thinking how to describe its look (I was a writer, after all) I could come up with the only suggestion, and probably quite a ridiculous one: "noble". Honestly, a unicorn can be "noble", not some strange sooty engine of our century. Apparently, my thoughts were already confused by all the fuss of the previous day, so I decided that I should try to sleep, the more so that the reality which I was looking at bore striking resemblance to dreams.

Our train arrived in London ten hours later, at eight o'clock. I sat, yawning convulsively, looked in the mirror on the compartment door and saw my own pale, tired face with eyelids somewhat pinkish due to lack of sleep. For some weird reason I could never make myself sleep properly in night trains, though the rhythmical sound of the wheels was quite relaxing (or at least for everyone else it was). So, feeling completely exhausted, I left the train without looking at the fantastic pink morning sky, shivered in the wet cold of crispy air and took a two-shilling cab to the house of my friends, who suggested that I should stay with them during the beginning period of my practice. They were McIvor family, McIvor Hamish, his wife Heather and their only daughter Liz.

Half an hour later I walked along the narrow path with crunchy pebbles and stepped inside the house, where I was greeted by McIvors cheerfully. From their family name one could erroneously conclude that they were Scottish farmers who by some twist of fate happened to move to London; in reality, the head of this family looked more intelligent than most of the British aristocrats. By a lucky coincidence he was also modest, which made him a cherished company for any of his acquaintances. Hamish McIvor descended from a long chain of Edinburgh zoologists, had been teaching Parasitology at the University, then retired; he also had a nodding acquaintance with Bell, and I was rather surprised when it appeared that the latter actually disliked poor Hamish. It was not like the Doctor to dislike someone so open-minded and unobtrusive – but is it, after all, so uncommon among people to feel unreasonable aversion for each other?

I, in my turn, certainly liked McIvor and was very pleased to stay in his house. The very sight of this somewhat nervous yet nice face and attentive hazel eyes watching you from behind the semicircular glasses heartened me a great deal. He had always had some interesting issues to discuss and he knew when it was time to be silent; then his sharp cheekbones would quiver, as if he was going to yawn, and he would stare away from you a bit lazily, indicating that there was no need to fill the pause unless you wished to. Even war, which made him lame, didn't manage to embitter his heart. I had no sense of hierarchy in his presence, although Hamish was older than me for twenty four years and had been a professor in my university for a considerable time – and I had been calling him by his Christian name. It was absolutely unimaginable with Bell: surely I could never dare call him "Joseph", the very thought seemed wild to me (I admit that behind his back those who sympathized with the Doctor quite warmly and unceremoniously referred to him as "Joe Bell").

I have not much to say about Heather - only that she was a very good woman and a loyal and loving wife to her husband. The reason is that she almost never talked to me, and nor did she to any strangers: poor thing had had an abusive family, which left some oddities in her character. She was still pretty, though a little plump, and had beautiful red hair, deep green eyes and a lot of freckles, varying in colour from purple red to lemon yellow. But most importantly, I'm still convinced that McIvor loved her dearly, and that has always been all that mattered.

The girl, who appeared to be only eleven years old, was winding her hair shyly, not daring to look at me; apparently, the very appearance of a stranger in their house embarrassed her. She reminded me of Innes, which was quite painful. After all, I wasn't even sure if I would be able to see him any soon.

- Hello, little one, - said I, trying to sound reassuring, - Your name is Liz, isn't it?

- 'es, sir, - she blushed and looked downcast. – Liz, 'es.

- It is nice to meet you. I'm Doctor Arthur Doyle, you can call me Arthur, if you wish.

It didn't embolden her, as I slightly hoped; in fact, my proposal embarrassed little Liz even more. She nodded speechlessly and ran away, chestnut ponytails fluttering behind her.

I sighed and looked around. Warm colours suited this Scottish family, the more so that the entire house was full of warm and dark shades. Stone fireplace in front of me casted yellow and red gleams into the gloom of the huge living room, and everything seemed so calm and peaceful that I almost immediately felt sleepy. McIvor showed me into my room, where I undressed and lay down, intending to doze for half an hour or so. Instead I suddenly slept away about twenty hours - was it the train insomnia or the nervous tension, I'll never know, but it surprised me considerably when I woke up in the dead of night. Deciding that there was most certainly no point in getting up at this hour, I returned to bed. Not that I managed to go to sleep, of course, so it was a fairly boring pastime.

It is now necessary to mention that in those days I had already been publishing my stories, and, though I had not been paid very well, my popularity was growing. Which, of course, hadn't been pleasing the Doctor, who was determined to keep his incognito when it came to forensic work (and, frankly, everything else). He had never been a public sort of person: quite the opposite, in fact. I only hoped that nobody would make a connection between the great detective and my mentor, for I didn't make them similar in every possible way. In some stories the resemblance was striking; but that usually applied to the way of thinking, not to the man's character. As a rule, Doctor was, first, more emotional than my creation (though he had always disliked showing his emotions, and rare it was when I could catch a glimpse of his strange inner world and guess about his true feelings); and, second, surprisingly, more unsociable. Unlike Sherlock Holmes, he had a big circle of acquaintances and even friends, but none of them was allowed to be close enough to him to see anything beneath the facade of a brilliant medical man and university teacher admired by many students. There was some disturbing controversy between his outward vigorous and friendly demeanour and deep melancholy which one could sometimes see written on his face. So far I was the only man in the University who knew about his participation in criminal investigations and, as a result, the only one with whom he could share his victories and failures. Sometimes in his presence I felt myself utterly stupid and ignorant. Truly I have never understood why he singled me like that; there were times when I wished so desperately he never did! And yet the long-lasting acquaintance with Joseph Bell, being my curse, was at the same time my blessing.

Next morning after getting up, wishing a good day to my friends McIvors, shaving and having breakfast (one of the tastiest one in the last month of my troubled life, I should admit. There was some tea, eggs, ham and jam buns that I adore since childhood) I quite reluctantly decided to finally unpack my things. Honestly, I felt so relaxed and lazy in this warm homely atmosphere that I had no wish to deal with all this mess of objects pushed into the suitcase helter-skelter. But it was inevitable, after all. I opened the thing, intending to be finished with this unpleasant necessity as soon as possible.

And then I saw it. Bell's glove. I stared at it in great astonishment, wondering how on earth the thing could turn up in my baggage. Surely the Doctor himself wouldn't put it there. I even thought that the glove was not his, but an identical one; however, I saw my mistake after a brief examination: it smelt with medicine, and, more important, was worn-through in exactly the same place where the Doctor's silver-topped cane would meet the leather. I admit with no great shame that I was extremely puzzled by this riddle.

It was only then that I noticed a piece of paper which was uncovered when I removed the glove. I lifted it with some vague anxiety, for Cream trained me to see menace in such seemingly unimportant yet symbolical things; it appeared to be a note, which I read attentively. It said as follows:

"_Dear Dr Doyle,_

_I took the trouble of finding the real prototype of Sherlock Holmes, and I'd really like to know if Dr Bell actually has those amazing skills pictured in your books. We shall see whether he will be able to save you some trouble."_

And there was no signature.


	2. The Dramatic Appearance

But if the reader thinks that I was frightened by this threat or even somewhat alarmed, he is being greatly mistaken. Unfortunately, I paid to it almost no attention. Judge for yourself: letters with threats from not-so-very-sane readers were an absolutely common thing among my fellow writers; this one didn't even promise to have my guts taken out and my heart cut to four pieces. And what did it mean, "to save you some trouble"? Was the author of the note going to keep jumping from the shrubbery on every occasion I would be going home from the admission office to make Bell interested?

The idea even amused me, so I proceeded with my task in somewhat lighter mood. The only thing that darkened my thoughts was the obvious fact that I was obliged to inform the Doctor about the incident. I saw clearly that he wouldn't be at all pleased. After all, what happened was what he dreaded the most: the revealation of his connection with the famous character from my stories. Thanks Heaven it wasn't public yet; it was truly a piece of luck that so far only one man knew that Bell was a prototype of Holmes. If it was not so, then the Doctor surely would be more than willing to cause me much more trouble than the unknown admirer of my works.

Next six hours were spent on the errands of professional kind. First, some daft old lady in green knitted socks with strawberries on them, who happened to be a friend of McIvor Senior; second, two nice six-year-old boys, who fell from a shed roof (yes, both of them at the same time); then a barrister with delirium tremens, and, finally, a poor young girl, who had a misfortune to go down with puerperal fever. All this left me quite tired, but in a good way. I felt that day, perhaps more acutely than ever, that no profession was such interesting a mixture of nobility, usefulness and humour but that of a doctor.

Then was the unpleasant part: informing Bell about the note. Usually I would write him a letter, but in this case such an intention would put me in an awkward position. Epistolary genre is an unhurried and detailed one, so there would be no way for me to avoid a long list of apologies and certainly no way to avoid explaining my feelings about the incident, which I hated a lot.

Generally I have no difficulties expressing what I feel, and I by no means find emotions disgraceful, but in my friendship with the Doctor it was not the case. His outward calm and indifference to any human manifestation made me feel so vulnerable that I started to thoroughly dislike showing my emotions to him. Sometimes it annoyed and frightened me to no end that he was able to guess about the majority of them anyway.

Final decision on the matter was quite a simple one: I went to the telegraph office and sent him a wire saying: "JUST RECEIVED A NOTE STOP SOMEBODY KNOWS WHO YOU ARE STOP". I hoped that the phrasing was vague enough so that it wouldn't allow any stranger to guess the true meaning; at the same time it was clear as a day for Bell.

I walked out, squinting at the cranberry-red warm sunset; it was gradually darkening and cooling all the way home, and I reached the wooden door just in time to see last pink stains of the sunlight in the sad light-blue sky. Stairs were crunching under my feet, and this homely unobtrusive noise finally made me feel absolutely relaxed. I had had a good long day; surely I earned my piece of rest. I smiled lazily, entering the familiar room.

- Good evening, Doyle, - came the ingratiating voice from behind me. I jumped and turned by leaps and bounds. Bell's shining blue eyes watched me with apparent curiosity. For a moment he somehow reminded me of a magpie.

- But you couldn't possibly- and how on Earth did you enter the house? Hamish wouldn't allow you to stay in my room, and-and what's the matter with you?

- Right, I didn't receive your telegram, - confirmed he politely.

- Then how do you know there _was_ a telegram?

- Oh, that's because I never lose things, you know.

For a moment he clearly enjoyed a look of strongest confusion on my face and then proceeded:

- I never lose things, so there was little chance I would lose the glove. Even if I would, it would probably be both of them, since I always put them together. Therefore somebody must have stolen it. But is it not ridiculous to steal one glove and leave another to its owner? This mystery remained unsolved until I saw the lock of your suitcase. It was stained in the fresh oil. Which means, of course, that somebody unlocked it recently. Yet another silly action: where's any sense in forcing a lock of the suitcase? Surely if you wish to steal something, it's better to take the whole thing and open it in some quiet place.

- ...Aye, it was there.

- It was, - he smiled a little.

- But why? The logic seems no less strange to me.

- Really, what a strange and useless thing to do. But if some action is outwardly useless, then it must make sense to the person who performs it. Gloves have a few symbolical meanings; the main of them is challenge to a duel. It is even more important that this meaning is applied mostly to one glove, not to a pair.

His face grew serious.

Now I felt at the same time relieved and slightly annoyed. Honestly, Bell didn't need to come there only to tell me about this brilliant chain of deductions. He probably didn't realize how little meaning threats of this kind had; after all, he knew nothing about writing and writers' relationships with their readers. Nevertheless, it occurred to me that I should have made him my excuses for the incident; and the fact that he came all the way from Edinburgh to London just because of my carelessness made me feel bad.

- I'm really sorry, Bell, - said I, - it's my fault.

- Yes, it is, - answered he with some asperity. There was an awkward silence.

- ...But there really was no need for you to come. I fully understand your concern, since it is your identity that has been revealed, but I highly doubt that this note will have any consequences. In fact, I'm sure that it won't. You know, in our profession it is no unusual event to receive such a threat. More popular writers than I get hundreds of them, so no reasons to worry.

- Oh really? – said he even more dryly, raising an eyebrow. – You forget, Doyle, that in _our_ profession it is the same. Well, he might have, of course, heard about me, but it's more likely that he knows both me and you personally; he took the trouble of stealing my glove and putting it into your suitcase; he must've done it right after you packed your things, so he has actually been in your house at the same time as you.

I was a bit shaken but not at all convinced.

- Perhaps he was just a practical joker. You of all men should know students' love for such things.

- That's possible; yet I don't like the situation at all. Cream also started with such kind of "practical jokes". – He slightly winced, as if from some physical discomfort. For me it worked as a trigger; and I had to clench my teeth to prevent them from chattering.

- But you don't suppose, - said I with an effort, - that – that it's he?

Bell's eyes were suddenly fixed on me. Black pupils slightly narrowed, like those of a cat.

- He's long dead, Doyle.

I looked at him irresolutely.

- And it's too silly and cheap a trick for Cream.

Touched, I gave a weak smile. The fact was that the Doctor hated to pronounce _his_ name, and so did I; this time he mentioned it twice, despite the obvious pain which it caused him. It was as if Bell was trying to destroy some evil charm or even help me to destroy it – but, unfortunately, some memories would remain with me forever, and nobody, not even he, would have been able to stir them from my mind.

- My concern is not about the revelation of my connection with Sherlock Holmes, - said the Doctor in a softened voice, - but about you, Doyle.

I swallowed hard. Strange thing: I've always possessed some kind of abstract knowledge that Bell was fond of me (he was, as I already mentioned, by no means an unemotional man), but I could never convince myself that that was true. It just seemed improbable.

- Thank you, - I said somewhat more quietly than it was appropriate.

He gave me a long strange look.

- Anyway, we shall see how it all will turn out. I'll be staying in London for yet another week. Don't think too highly of yourself: I have here business of my own.

Then we quietly went downstairs; I noticed that this time for some reason even the steps didn't crunch. We almost approached the entrance door when I heard a little noise, as if someone shifted from one foot to another, and made out a blue glitter in the warm darkness. I flinched and stepped back; but before I could do or say anything, Bell gently touched my shoulder with his fingers, indicating that I should remain silent.

- Uh, young lady, - said the Doctor, and I would've sworn that he was smiling, - good evening again.

- Good evening, sir. - She stepped towards us, and I saw that the blue glitter which I noticed previously was due to the wide blue ribbon tied up in a bow in her marvellous autumn hair. Liz herself was smiling a bit shyly, looking at us both.

- I'm going home now, - Bell told her seriously. - Thank you for your help, Miss Liz. It is much appreciated.

She blushed, smiling wider.

- You're welcome, sir.

I was watching them with suspicion. Bell's face, however, was inscrutable.

- So you know each other?

- …We do.

So that was how he came in.

- Very childish of you, - grumbled I, opening the door. In the faint blue light which streamed from outside I saw him grinning. He stepped into the street, and at the same time there was a strange dull click and – for a moment – darkness: it was like someone had passed along the house hastily. We both looked towards the next building, but nobody was there.

- Strange, - and when I was about to ask what he meant by "strange", he added: "Oh, never mind".

- So where are you staying?

- Pond Street. Some friends of mine kindly agreed to receive me. Let me know if something happens, Doyle. And good night.

- Good night, - repeated I like an echo. He turned and swiftly walked away, slightly tapping with his silver-topped cane, like a dog with its claws. If he'd been a dog, thought I, he'd have probably been a huge and lean one. Something like a Great Dane.


	3. Unpredictable

Envying Bell's extraordinary ease in communicating with children, I went upstairs to my room and then to bed, expecting good and long rest; but I couldn't sleep. Something was bothering me, keeping me on the edge of consciousness, scratching my very soul. It wasn't just the shadow, but what happened right after the words "good night". Something strange, something that should not have happened. I was watching the moment over and over: it was like a man with a crooked leg; you look at him, starting from the face and slowly moving downwards, and everything is perfectly normal until the leg comes into your sight. Then you feel that something's wrong, but at first you don't seem to realise what exactly.

I opened my eyes sharply, staring into the inscrutable blue darkness of the landscape outside. Now I knew what it was. He said "Pond Street", but I was familiar with this part of London; and Pond Street was right in the opposite direction from the one he walked. I remembered the shadow; his light blue eyed shining brightly at me when he said "Strange"; and fast "Never mind" after that; I shuddered all over, jumping to my feet and dressing hastily. The man who passed us was my Anonymous. I was sure now Bell knew it the moment he first realised that we were not alone. He had not a slightest intention of going to his rooms at Pond – he was going to face our man, to "save me some trouble". Naturally the Doctor thought that the cat wanted to start a game and play with its mouse – God knows in which way.

I grabbed my medical bag and hurried downstairs as noiselessly as I could. Last glance at the hospitable darkness of the common room, and then cool night air washed me all over; I was walking along the gloomy chain of squat houses that were staring at me with their blind black eyes. I was so completely alone that it made the whole scene look like a theatrical stage – young Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle as a main hero, night sleeping London as a decoration. I could only pray to God that the author of this unknown play had been merciful enough to let live the other hero, the Doctor.

The hard stony street had ended, and I was making my way through a stripe of dirty white sound. Luckily there had been no forks yet; and I saw then a distinct chain of footsteps, which, as I suspected, were Bell's. My heart had gone strangely cold and steady when I noticed that there was not only one chain but two. The footprints of the second man were somewhat larger; but it could be well due to more crude type of boots. I stopped for a moment, trying to calm my breath and wildly pounding heart. Pathetic wisps of poor grass were growing here and there in this dull place, but in the faint light of the night sky even those seemed to be utterly black. Wind gave a weak whistle, touching my cheeks and nose; it suddenly brought to me distinct and almost unpleasant smell of the river water. I lifted my gaze. Right in front of me dirty sands ended and began a long line of the beach, where dark and deep Thames licked the wet shore melancholically. Tishhh-tshhh. Tissshhhh-tshhh. Tshhhhh. It was whispering something to me in an unknown language, filling my soul with horror and despair.

-Bell! – shouted I, unable to breathe. There was no answer.

I quickened my steps. Often in literature such moments are described as those of intense fear and, at the same time, perfect consciousness – but for me it was rather the other way round. My reaction was immediate and physiological: I felt clearly that I could faint at any moment. Everything suddenly pained me, everything was exaggerated in my mind and was making me sick. The smell of silt and dirty water, combined with disgustingly living jelly of the river, formed a lump in my throat. What frightened me the most was the sky: only then I began to see its purplish colour. Oh God, purple sky is such a queer thing! It reminded me strikingly of a dead body; the shade was so natural for drowned men's arms when they remain in a morgue for some time and begin to split. I dared not look at it much more, for I dreaded that, like some huge haematoma, there would spread a blot of another colour.

I believe that if I had found the Doctor dead this evening, I would have gone mad in the worst and very literal sense of this word. As a medical man I was aware of those post-stress reactions that appeared sometimes even under the most comfortable and harmless circumstances. There only should be a trigger which reminds a patient about the unfortunate events. Then even in the bravest men occurs the most irrational, unnatural behaviour. Now these circumstances were by no means harmless (and I wasn't very brave); but, knowing about the phenomenon, I still couldn't bring myself to control it; in fact, I could hardly keep acting in a more or less reasonable fashion.

It was then that I saw the familiar tall figure – he was standing right on front of me, still and silent. I stopped, shutting my eyes for a moment, feeling perspiration on my face. My lips grew perceptibly cold. Apparently, I looked really bad, for he stepped towards me, lifting his hand slowly and hesitantly. I caught his gaze with some effort, breathing convulsively, and met a marvellously controversial mixture of emotions – light amusement, anxiety, and, perhaps, a bit of curiosity. He was obviously worried by my pathetic state but at the same time couldn't help smiling; indeed the left corner of his lips slightly curled up.

- So you've guessed. Good. I thought you'd notice.

His light attitude summoned up all that remained of my pride and self-respect. There was little; however, it managed to prevent me from falling unconscious under his stare.

- You're all right? – my voice was still a bit uneven.

- Not perfectly, I'm afraid, - said he. – He managed to hit me with a knife. Really, it is I –

- Good God. - I stepped towards him. Red as cranberry, Bell's blood was forming a moving and growing spot on the left side of his chest.

- It is not the heart; the wound is right above the clavicle. Just bandage the thorax... And, perhaps, I better sit down. – the Doctor, indeed, was almost awkwardly tall.

He took off his coat, threw it on the sand and sat; when I kneeled beside him, I saw not without a shudder that he was still smiling.

- But no sewing in such a darkness, laddie: you will strain your eyes.

I remember the following events of this night as if in some dark mist of a bad and incoherent dream. I dressed his wound; then I stopped for a moment, staring in his eyes, transparent as water.

- Does it pain much? – asked I after a pause.

Bell was looking at me steadily, and now his aquiline face seemed to bear no emotion.

- Oh, it's nothing, Doyle.

We rose and walked away in silence. I held his arm, since the blood loss weakened him for all that. I was persistently looking at the ground; for it was beyond my strength to meet the sight of the night shore. Depending on my account of the events, at this moment I should've been exhausted and longing for sleep, but I felt nothing of the kind. As a matter of fact, it was quite the opposite. I was shivering under his hand, nauseous, like in deep fever; and hot blood was still hammering in my temples, as if some sinister church bell was summoning all sorts of dark creatures to the unholy mess.

Wet thick sand changed into dirty sandy road with familiar grass wisps, and then little stones came into my sight, indicating the narrow artificial path which led to the broad street. I felt that childish dark fear loosened its grip on my throat, and stopped unsteadily, shuddering all over and clenching my teeth. It was somehow worse than the actual fit of madness which happened to me less than an hour ago.

I staggered and buried my forehead in Bell's chest, choking with tearless sobs; even the leather of his coat was warmer than my skin. It smelt with smoke and medicine.

He, obviously, expected nothing of the kind, because I felt him flinch appreciably; he made a convulsive inhalation when I grabbed his shoulders. For a moment I was almost sure he was thinking of a way to free himself, but I simply could not let go of him, I was in no state to control my actions.

- Doyle, - said he quietly and stopped; I was now hugging him frantically. – Doyle, you will break my ribs. This maniac of yours will be happy that you considered it appropriate to finish what he started.

I uttered something between a laugh and a sobbing.

The Doctor touched my wrist with his gloved hand, and then, instead of pushing me away, squeezed it almost painfully.

McIvors were already up, awaiting us in anxiety. Light in the fireplace, though not very bright, irritated my eyes when I entered the house; Hamish approached us hastily, giving his hand to Bell. The Doctor silently lay down on the couch, and I bent over him, making hasty preparations for the wound sewing. He seemed much worse than he was on the beach – what disturbed me the most was that his eyes became lasklustre, as if he was trying to remember something and couldn't. I often saw this expression on his face during the work on cases. Plato, I guess, would be happy to see such a support for his philosophical theories.

Nevertheless he was still conscious. Looking at us, he suddenly smiled with a half of his mouth, and I saw that, since he was a bit longer than the couch and his legs were drooping down, he was dangling them slightly. I shook my head with reproach, Liz stepped towards us and Hamish sighed.

- May I hope that you will later explain how on earth it all turned out as it did?

I nodded with concentration, taking out the surgical needle.

- Certainly. But don't worry now, go to bed. I'm almost sure he will be fine.

- Perhaps I can bring you some coffee? – said Heather. I flinched at the sound of her voice, realising that it was only the second or the third time when she spoke to me or in my presence.

- ...Thank you; it would be really much appreciated.

Half an hour later I made one last knot, fell into the armchair and took a coffee cup tiredly. After all the events of this day, thought I, hot honey coffee smell was exactly what I needed (not to mention the taste).

- Really awkward, - Bell's tone was regretful. I nearly spilled the coffee on my knees, for I thought that he was asleep, - Poor fellow knows perfectly my aversion for him. And now he is forced to let me stay in his house.

- Oh, he will put up with it this way or other. 'Onestly, Bell, sometimes you can be awfully unpredictable.

He didn't seem to be put to shame by my remark; instead he was contemplating me with interest, of all things. Apparently my wording lacked reproach.

- And I don't mean it in a good way, - I added crossly after a pause.


	4. The Footsteps

- ...It's not Cream, my dear Doyle, - said he very seriously, looking up at me. I was sitting beside his bed, milky sunbeams wandering around the room pointlessly. He was pale and seemed to be not quite able to focus his gaze on anything; however, his speech was reasonable and even more distinct and laconic than usual, which comforted me somewhat. Afraid to disturb him, I spoke in a quiet voice.

- But how do you know? It was, after all, so dark there, and he could-

- Cream was a medical student; he couldn't possibly miss the heart even in the darkness. If he did, he would know at once that the wound wasn't lethal. And, above all, he would never let me live.

I watched him silently, feeling my heart pace slightly increase at his last words.

- We should check the beach for the footsteps and other possible clues. And better do it now, for there're thunderclouds gathering.

The Doctor looked gloomily into the window, where behind the pale morning light something dark was boiling and swirling.

- Now! – cried I, - Surely you cannot go anywhere yet!

- ...of course I can. And what choice do I have? I know a lot about the man, but still not enough. He came from Edinburgh either yesterday or the day before yesterday, possibly on the same train as you. He's shorter than I (we both smiled, for it was no distinct mark indeed to be shorter than Bell) – approximately five feet and four inches tall. Besides, he has two little daughters.

- Shouldn't I report to the police? And – Bell, how do you know about these daughters?

He smiled a hazy smile and took out two blue ribbons.

- Picked these from his pocket when he was just going to leave.

A shudder darted through my body.

- They're probably just like Liz... On the one hand, he buys them such stuff, so they're not old enough to buy it themselves; on the other, ribbons are a children's adornment.

- Agreed.

- And how to imagine that their father would turn out to be a madman and a criminal!

The Doctor sighed, watching me sadly.

- You're right. But it would be even worse if their father, being a madman and a criminal, would never be discovered as such or discovered too late.

- ...Right.

Surely an attempt on Bell's life should've killed any pity I had for our man, but deep inside I could never stop wondering if his madness wasn't a kind of disease. A maniac is never born with some murder bacteria in his blood, is he? In childhood he was the same charming baby as all of his peers were, thought I. I even imagined this baby. Bonnie blue eyes, a mischievous smile on a disproportionately big face with delicate silky skin - a strange and beautiful small creature, resembling a porcelain doll.

What stood, apparently, between me and impartial judgement was the apparition of my father - my guilt, which I felt constantly, for not taking proper care of him. Sometimes I understood clearly that it was positively impossible. But it never made me feel better.

On the other hand, there was Cream. I hated him with all my passion, hated him even after he died. Hadn't he had the same kind of "disease" then?

- As to the police, - proceeded the Doctor, making me flinch, - That will hardly do. What are we to tell them? The truth will create a huge scandal, you and I – we will be famous in an hour, though not, I'm afraid, in a very pleasant sense of the word. We should not allow them to investigate the matter. The only possible solution is to figure out the name of the man. Then we shall see if there're any solid proofs of his crime.

I wouldn't believe it myself, but an hour or so later we were walking along the same river shore. Now everything looked quite gray and harmless; sun was touching us gently with its warm beams. Sandy, white, greyish and delicate pink colours were finely distributed to the landscape, like in Turner's paintings. The Doctor walked a bit unsteadily, but he was obviously pleased with the fresh air and new intellectual problems. I, on my turn, was trying to look around as little as possible, for after the two unfortunate incidents nothing could bring to me more painful memories than the sight of the shore line. Nonetheless it was essential to look somewhere, and, since we came there to collect clues, I was attentively watching the sand under my feet.

There were two chains of footsteps, already familiar to me, and a couple of blood drops, which, apparently, fell from the blade. I bent forward to examine the footsteps more closely, and something strange arrested my attention. I gave an amazed sigh, touching the sand with my fingers. The second chain was not homogenous. While it was obvious that all the footsteps in the chain were left by the same man, those on the right were much more distinct than on the left.

- Bell, - called I quietly, straightening up, - I think he was lame.

The Doctor, who was some four feet ahead of me, turned and walked back, waving with his cane. He stopped beside me, and I heard him whistle cheerfully. "Oh? Why do you think so, Doyle?"

- You see, half of the footsteps are more distinct than another half, - there was a tint of blankness to this answer. For I could think of only one person among our acquaintances who was lame. – Don't you- don't you think it could be Hamish McIvor?

And those ribbons. Blue, same as that of Liz. Was it possible that he bought two ribbons not for two girls, but for one? For his only daughter? Because children often lose such things, and it's always good to have a stock of them. I felt some strange rigour taking over me. I recalled my own words: "They're probably just like Liz... And how to imagine... Madman and a criminal!"

Bell's soft voice dragged me out from this somnambulistic state.

- Good that you did notice. But you're wrong. And, for Heaven's sake, don't think about poor Hamish. I don't like him, that much is true, but you keep suggesting the most dramatic versions. At the beginning you feared it was dead Cream, now you think it is one of your closest friends who invited you to stay at his house. We're not in a crime novel, are we, Doyle? I suspect that it will be the most unrelated and dull person ever. Probably some nodding acquaintance of ours.

I smiled involuntarily.

- No, we're most certainly not in a crime novel. But the footsteps?

- Ah, the footsteps. You see, my dear Doyle, it's a child's work.

I stared at him in strong confusion.

- When I was little, I used to do such things. Somehow the thought that it will confuse grown-ups amused me. – His lips strained in attempt to hold back a smile. – Look, the pattern is not regular. It was made with some small stick or perhaos a stone. These are not his footsteps at all, so, unfortunately, they give us no clue.

Feeling greatly relieved, I was somewhat absent-mindedly watching his gloved hands. Probably not a very usual thing to do, but all three of my occupations (those of a doctor, a writer and an investigator) made it my habit to pay attention to the most unusual and small things. I'm sure that the man himself had done this sort of thing many times a day; in fact, it was he who trained me to be observant.

One of his hands was laid on the top of the cane and was perfectly still; another he held half-lifted, as if unsure what to do next. Long fingers seemed almost too thin against the pale sky; and there was a curious impression that it was he who was holding back great thunderclouds in the corner of the landscape, effectively preventing them from any movement.

It was obvious now that rain was already pouring on the other side of Thames. There was the distinct edge behind which everything was quite grey; and streams of falling water covered a considerable part of town with a very fine and neat living hatching, creating a strange impression that the houses were shivering.

- Yet... Bell, what if it was not a child, but the man himself? Suppose he was willing to make Hamish fall under suspicion?

- Agreed. That's also possible.

Bell sighed thoughtfully, drawing some strange constructions on the sand with his cane. They seemed to be a part of a huge and complicated scheme, like that of a non-existent fantastical city.

- But I found one thing that will probably help us.

I turned only to see him, smiling broadly, with a blood-stained knife in his hand. He was holding it very carefully with two fingers, squeezing the blade. For a moment I had a vague sense of déjà vu; it was just like the scene in the morgue, save for a scalpel, which was replaced by a knife.

- What are we to do then? – asked I quietly.

- Why, we should report to the police. I can certainly figure out the name, and now we have solid evidence against him. – he frowned slightly. – Of cours, it will be not at all easy to make them accept my version without questions. They will be eager to know how it all started and why he even tried to kill me in the first place. Besides, I don't know how the man himself will behave.

There was a pause; he was, apparently, weighing something in his mind, turning the possible solutions rapidly.

- I cannot rely on the London police to this extent, even despite their gratitude for my help. In addition, it would be sickening to tell lies. I shall tell the truth.

My heart suddenly slackened its pace, and I felt relief, and weariness, and some melancholy; for it seemed to be the end of the case. No more blood, no more anxiety, no night walks, no bad dreams. I could almost sense the forthcoming oddity of the "normal life" – after every single case I had had a period of adaptation, of getting accustomed to live normally, to feel normally, which was sometimes most uncomfortable. The truth is, this adaptation was never full. My forensic work experience with Bell had never let go of me. All the same, today was not the day to remember the bitter truths; I was longing for sleep, good tea and, probably, good talk.

Yet one thing still troubled me.

- But what's about your privacy? I believe they will not conceal the story.

- They will not, - agreed the Doctor. – At the same time, bobbies are not journalists. They will not shout about it on every corner either. Perhaps my authority will be able to hush it all up a little. And, above all, none of all the possible outcomes is a real catastrophe.

I gave him a distrustful look.

- Do you mean it, my dear Bell?

- I do, - confirmed he calmly. – Anyway, all the attention will be concentrated on you as a writer, which will only increase your popularity. We're both alive. In fact, nobody is killed, which is a great luck. Usually we're not so fortunate. Honestly, Doyle, you should have learnt to be fatalistic. It is a useful skill for an investigator.


	5. The First Snow

And he went to the police and presented them with the story. What followed was a whole lot of exhausting forensic work, such as checking the personalities of all the passengers of the two trains, then comparing it to the information about the newcomers from McIvors' neighbourhood and so on. I should also mention that it was in itself a very remarkable case, for in it dactyloscopy was used. Fingerprint registration for criminals was introduced in Scotland Yard not as long ago as one year before the mentioned events, and so it was very difficult to convince the police to use fingerprints as evidence; "indeed", - commented Bell after one of the most fruitless arguments with the Police Chief, - "typical bobby is an awfully nice and brave fellow, but he is not very strong at the intellectual side of the job. We should not blame him for this: he is on his feet for eight hours a day, so he simply hasn't 'ot enough blood in his brain."

But this time neither we nor the police had any choice. The only evidence, apart from the note, was a bloody knife with fingerprints (very good and distinct, though).

It is recorded now everywhere that the first case which was solved with help of dactyloscopy was the Francisca Rojas case; and the first one in which fingerprints were used as an actual evidence was the case of Scheffer. The latter is not, in fact, completely true. There was a case before Scheffer's in which a criminal was charged and imprisoned on the basis of fingerprints evidence. However, thanks to the Doctor's authority and the case being not a dramatic murder but a modest murder attempt, almost nobody today knows about the Fitzroy trial.

- So his name is Robert James Fitzroy.

I noted that the Doctor was watching me with an expression of interest and amusement. Once again he looked exactly like a magpie sitting on a tree branch.

The name said nothing to me; I blinked, trying to remember anyone called Fitzroy. Professor Fitzroy? Mister Fitzroy? Doctor Fitzroy?

- …Don't know him, I'm afraid, - said I finally with some embarrassment.

Bell laughed.

- That's it! The fellow is so dull and distant that you can't even remember his name.

- Do you know him? – I smiled back.

- I do, as a matter of fact. He's an extra-mural teacher holding lectures on Chemistry in the new Infirmary building.

- Oh, I remember something of a sort, - a brief recollection of the bulldog-like face and bright coffee-coloured eyes slipped through my mind. – At first he seemed to me an interesting person.

He chortled.

- Aye, and then you quit his classes, 'cause he was "boring as hell".

- But why on earth would he behave in such crazy a way? Fitzroy is the last person I could imagine forcing suitcases and hanging around killing people.

- Well, I imagine that's the point. He was boring. His life was boring. But all this to your point of view; he himself was probably quite satisfied. You see, Doyle, Fitzroy was a kind of man who didn't do much soul-searching. And he wouldn't even think to consider whether his lifestyle was interesting or not unless he stumbled across something really bright.

Now you can take it as a compliment to your writing abilities: your stories happened to be this "something". Naturally he was fascinated, poor thing, and became your admirer. He could've stayed in his right mind, though, being a harmless nutty old man, like those who start suddenly to collect stamps; yet, unfortunately, he managed to discover that you were somewhat inspired by my Method while creating the main character.

Knowing that he had been teaching alongside a prototype of Sherlock Holmes for years was, apparently, too much for Fitzroy. He fancied that with this knowledge he gained some power over you and me. That's the sad story.

Bell stopped smiling, staring into the dusty small window of the police station with a somewhat melancholic expression.

First snow was falling in the London streets. Crunchy and radiantly white, it made the roadway a sheer mess.

We, Bell and I, were walking towards the railway station, both with our collars turned up. His cane once again was tapping like a dog claw, like a claw of some very busy and purposeful dog.

- Tell me, Bell: why is it that you don't like Hamish?

He thought for a moment.

- Seems too good. – He slightly lifted his eyes, watching the snowy sky. – Something unnatural about it.

I smiled weakly.

- So you don't like the man because he is flawless. Great. Well, aren't you the same?

The Doctor slackened his pace a little.

- Nice to hear such assumptions from you, Doyle – but I don't think so.

There were the Charing Cross gates right in front of us; and a black locomotive stood still in the beginning of a long chain of many fine red coaches, shining dimly with its round anthracite sides.

- I believe it's my train, - sighed Bell, looking at me steadily.

- Well... Goodbye then, - I caught his gaze, searching for any trace of emotion. – Hope we will meet under better circumstances. Not connected with Sherlock Holmes.

- I hope so too. Would be really good.

He waved in farewell, quickly smiling; yet I still cannot tell what this smile meant. Not that it looked like a sign of obvious and sheer happiness. But it wasn't cheerless either.

After two weeks of trial Fitzroy was sentenced to life imprisonment. The case was over; police managed to make it as inconspicuous as possible, so the Doctor hadn't been suffering from the excess of public attention.

Fame came to him some years later, when a journalist called Harry How (the name was really too good to be true) arrived to Edinburgh after corresponding with me about the origins of Holmes' Method. In spite of my apprehension, Bell was not at all baffled or confused. He didn't enjoy the attention and most certainly didn't like the flow of madmen writing to him and even arriving in Edinburgh in person (sometimes he would write to me peevishly: "thanks to you, my dear Doyle, now I in Auld Reekie enjoy twice the amount of rubbish than here used to be") – and yet it didn't affect his life seriously. He was still teaching in the University, still was active and vigorous, kept two setters and proceeded to do forensic work for the Crown. The queer thing was that then people knew about this side of his life much less than they knew about his pre-Holmes cases. In his own words, he "gave away no information to deil".

We had been still working together, but no one knew. Perhaps no one shall know nothing about it for years after our deaths.

Sometimes in the end of the year, when I'm sitting behind my desk drinking tea with lemon, I realise that I stopped writing. I often find myself holding an old black leather glove, which usually remains behind my inkpot, looking at it absent-mindedly. Then I always look in the window full of soft autumn light and mutter thoughtfully: "what a silly, silly case. No, really, it was way too silly".

It cheers me up somehow.


End file.
